accidentally on purpose
by MaussHauss
Summary: It's like an accident, even when it's not. Orange POV, slash, oneshot.


It's an accident. It's gotta be.

Here's what it's like; it's like bumping your elbow on some cute stranger's tit in a crowded subway. You don't mean to do it, you're perfectly mortified, but your elbow is thanking you. Or else it's like going to cross your legs under the lunch table and finding you've hooked an ankle over someone else - a friend, maybe. And they just leave it there, and they just keep talking, and it's up to you to decide whether or not to withdraw.

It's comfortable and it's extremely awkward at the same time, is what this is.

It's nothing like yawning and reaching over to get your arm around your girl, no, 'cos that's not accidental at all. White is way too cool for shit like that anyway. If he wanted to cop a feel he'd probably just say so.

Orange thinks that might be his gentlemanly M.O., at least. Orange thinks a lot of things.

What Orange does _not_ think, however, is that White is doing any of this consciously. He probably doesn't even know what kind of affect it can have on a guy like Orange, when one ankle has strayed under the other as they readjust to all fit around that bar table. When the warm press of his thigh betrays the hard muscle of a man who used his legs to actually take him places.

Orange sucks his cigarette down the wrong way when Brown cracks a particularly ribald joke about the Mayor of LA. Freddy knew the Mayor, for chrissakes.

White, like it's the most natural thing in the world, reaches over to pat the center of Orange's back until he stops coughing. Slap, slap, heavy palm on dull black leather. He's not even paying attention while he does this, talking up at the waitress for a coffee to follow this last round of beers. When the waitress leaves, White settles his hand where it landed, bracing Orange like someone might steady their dog on the furniture.

Orange leans back, nodding at Pink's half-hearted concern. White's elbow props back against the booth, fist curled at Orange's back. With each word of the argument with Joe, White's fist gives a small tap forward, a little punch. Rough and playful like Orange is just some kid brother.

Carefully swallowing his beer, Orange glances over at White. He's sprawled back, relaxed, in serious violation of Orange's personal space. Not like that was anything, though, hell they were all squashed together to keep their voices down and their faces out of the public eye.

Or maybe it was just the nature of the crook to be drunk and friendly. Freddy wasn't going to count it as a loss, if they so easily accepted him into the ranks.

And, you know. It's all just an accident, anyway.

A matter of circumstance. An unfortunate coincidence.

White, see, White is the kind of guy Freddy might go for, if he ever had any time to browse LA's roaring gay scene. White is a little bit older than what usually drew Freddy's eye, but the man more than made up for that with conversational charm. He was an open book, easy-going and dry with the humor. It was a shame, too, because Freddy went to school for profiling, for fuck's sake; it didn't take all of his psychological prowess to understand this guy was flying the same damn flag as him, but, you know. A damn shame.

Because it's like this, see, it's like walking into a room and knowing the cologne in the air. Orange can pick out the aftershave behind the cigarillo smoke, and a layer under that there's fresh-ironed cotton and heat and salt and musk. The smoke and the booze can't hide it. Orange's jacket hardly hides his body's response, when the sweat of him loses the tang of anxiety and pulls up with the fragrant leather to go neck-and-neck for fuck-me vibes.

They're all sweating, sure, red in the nose with drink and laughing and opening collars in the hot press of an LA dive.

It's tripping into a stranger on the subway, is what it's like. Orange's body is singing a lament to his wedding ring while Freddy just wants to double over and apologize and maybe take a cab next time.

White's attention drifts over to Orange like an iceberg, full and unstoppable. "You catch the game last night?"

Orange's mind races for the tail end of the conversation going around the table. "Uh," a blink. Blame it on the beer. "The baseball game?" He sits up straighter. He does like baseball, just hasn't had any time to sit down and enjoy a game in a long while.

White's eyes light up over the rim of his coffee mug. His fist closes over Orange's far shoulder and he gives a tug. Chuckling, he sets his cup carefully to the table. Then his attention is back on Orange, and his smile does weird things to the pit of Orange's stomach. "Never thought I'd get to see it, the day the Brewers started winning me money again. Shit," White looks over their meager crowd. "Like a crisis of faith, these last three seasons. Then _bam_, outta nowhere, Varnes and Crowley take it to the fences."

White shrugs back against the booth, chuckling. Joe is congratulatory and at the same time wants to know how much he won. White rounds off a figure, but it's no safe bet that a few fellas what might owe him will skip out. Orange listens carefully for any name drops, smile quirking up when White frowns a question his way.

It's just a matter of circumstance, is what it is. Orange settles back with his beer, heel tucked up on the edge of the booth seat, one elbow hanging lazily over his knee. White's arm is just behind his neck, heat and scent and the colorful splash of hibiscus print on a short sleeve.

Orange knocks back the beer, hair tickling the inside of White's elbow. He leans forward to find a clear spot on the table to deposit the empty bottle and by the time he relaxes back again White's arm is half caught on the withdraw. Orange startles up, both feet hit the floor, Orange doesn't make it past the apology before White's arm is tightening behind him, curling around his waist.

It's a brief squeeze and they shift to let Nice Guy out to 'powder his nose', and White's arm has tripped and found itself under Orange's jacket and it's awkward and it's comfortable and Orange swallows audibly and picks up someone else's beer.

White isn't even paying attention. He's bragging about the baseball game, laughing at Blonde's dry rejoinders. Blonde catches Orange's eye and winks and for no reason at all this makes Orange's skin go hot. He lights a cigarette just to prove to himself that he can do so with steady hands.


End file.
